Facing the Battlefield
by IndigoLux
Summary: Bored and irritated at having to share John with Mary, Sherlock brings a curious redhead back to 221B hoping she'll assist on cases and fill the hole his friend left. However, when her own dark past is dug up, the case might be too much for even the consulting detective. Can Sherlock protect his friends? Can a man on the side of the angels tame the darkness to save one?
1. A Skull and a Scarlet Coat

_(I do not own the characters in Sherlock, they belong to ACD, Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. To any lovely readers, this is my first story and any reviews or criticisms are very appreciated!)_

 **1\. A Skull and a Scarlet Coat**

 _"Perhaps the world's second-worst crime is boredom; the first is being a bore." ~ Cecil Beaton_

There were many things to hate about London. The air was stuffy and polluted, and the streets were constantly crowded with an endless torrent of people rushing from one place to the next. There were also many things to love about London. For some, it may be the busy sound of the cars and pedestrians that breathe life into the city. Others may be fond of the way the buildings rise up to meet the sky, cutting into the grey clouds forever hanging above them. To all who lived there, London was synonymous with rain and chill and noise. But for two men sharing a simple flat on Baker street, the great city of London was something much more. It was a war zone, where a battle was being waged that very few people ever saw. And they loved every second of it.

"Where in bloody hell are you going now?!" exclaimed Sherlock Holmes to his less than enthusiastic flatmate.

"Out to get milk, and if all goes well, avoid you!" John sharply retorted, shrugging on his coat. He had little patience for the world's only sleuthing baby today.

"What good is having a partner in criminal investigation if they're never there when investigating!" Sherlock heaved a sigh and flopped ungracefully onto the couch, his dressing gown draping over the edge. "You're becoming quite an unreliable waste of my time doctor, keep it up and I'll simply replace you."

"Replace me?" John raised an eyebrow at his burden.

"Do you really think not? Admittedly, you are far more useful than those I've previously had the displeasure to work with, but as I've said, you haven't been around lately and I _need_ an assistant." he continued, raising his chin stubbornly.

"For God's sake Sherlock, I'm married now! Why don't you take your skull! I'm sure it'll fill in nicely. " Bitterness and irritation filled John's voice as he turned and stomped out, the door slamming behind him.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Without the amusing distraction of his friend's irrational temper, he had nothing to occupy his time between cases. He'd just finished one this morning and it wasn't the least bit challenging. It had been blindingly obvious that the late Ms. Kennedy had been killed by her spoiled chihuahua ChiChi's medication. All the signs pointed to the envious next door neighbor, the rip in the top of the sugar bag being the most prominent clue. The consulting detective never left his house for any case less than a 7, and that could barely be considered a 4.

His fingers twitched anxiously against his leg, and he began to get the feeling in his chest that he always got when his brain was idle. He felt stifled and on edge, jumpy even. With a groan he leaped to his feet and walked across the coffee table to the mantle, picking up his skull. It had been a good companion for years, that much was true, but Sherlock knew that it couldn't begin to compare to John Watson. Sure, he could talk at the skull. But there would be no talking back or witty banter or questions or compliments on his astounding and unparalleled brilliance.

Unlocking the drawer that John kept a spare gun in, Sherlock pointed it at a garish yellow smiley painted on the wall, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot rang through the flat as he shot again and again.

"Bored! So. Boring!" he yelled, smiling brightly as a door banged open on the floor below and footsteps were heard on the stairs.

"Sherlock! Put that filthy thing away and quit abusing my wall! I'm taking more out of your rent for this young man!" a sweet looking old lady appeared in the doorway, scolding him.

"Oh, do be quiet Mrs. Hudson. The world is being extraordinarily dull and I can hardly stand it!" his hands ruffled through his hair as he jumped into his chair.

"Then go out and find yourself a case! A good long case will be waiting for you somewhere, to put your mind at ease. Go on! Out!" she exclaimed, picking up a tray and tea cups that had been tossed to the ground. "I'll clean this awful mess, but just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper!"

"Find my own case..yes! Find a case! Goodness knows it's a city full of idiots, there is bound to be something interesting. Why wait for the criminal classes to find me?" he mumbled to himself and ran to his room, changing into a suit and his trademark Belstaff coat. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be out and don't wait up. It's unlikely I'll be back for supper." he called over his shoulder, ignoring any reply as he climbed into a taxi.

The drive itself was long and dull, watching out the window to find anything that peaked his interest. The criminal world was being dreadfully quiet. He directed the driver to drop him off, deciding to walk instead. He traveled all of London in his mind, envisioning a map directing him to all the places that one would find the most diverse influx of people. Eventually he descended the stairs to the tube station, glancing around at the crowd.

Deductions whirred through his brain and in front of his eyes. Middle-aged insurance investigator, late to work, had an extreme peanut allergy. Young Italian girl with an aversion to mustard, just starting University but behind in studies because of drug addict boyfriend. Older lady in her early 50's, visiting her son who is about to become a father. Her husband left her for a younger woman. To his right he noticed a flighty school teacher run into the arms of a shorter man, who, judging by the ring mark on his finger, was a serial adulterer with a preference for horror movies and long-haired cats.

So many stories and lives running through his head easily everywhere he looked. His mind flitted from one to the other rapidly, none of them catching his interest. What boring lives normal people lead, how could they stand it? His head swiveled between people, but stopped dead when he noticed the back corner of the station.

Sitting on a bench was a young woman, 25 or 26. She wore ripped blue jeans, a black t-shirt with white lettering, and a scarlet jacket. Her auburn hair was slightly wavy and tucked under the collar of her coat, but he imagined it went nearly to her waist. What he did see of it fell in wisps around a fair, round face. Her eyes were downcast, hooded by her hair as she sat with one leg crossed over the other. Her right hand was held to her mouth, chewing on the thumbnail as she was engrossed in a novel.

'Bookish, likely intelligent' he thought to himself. 'Introverted, possibly shy, so she wouldn't be bothered if others talked over her, including me. Curious personality, adventurous even, if the rips in her jeans and her worn boots were anything to show.' A backpack sat next to her, a suitcase and a canvas bag at her feet. 'Looking for a place to stay, cheap. Usually lives alone.'

Sherlock Holmes was definitely not looking for another flatmate, God knows John caused him enough grief. But in all the passersby, the ordinary people doing ordinary things, this girl in scarlet stood out. Alone, bored, curious but unrushed. Unused potential. Who better to offer her exactly what she needs? She'd be a much better option than his skull. Sherlock grinned to himself and popped his coat collar.

He'd found his new case.


	2. Trouble, Meet Chaos

**2\. Trouble, Meet Chaos**

" _All genius is a conquering of chaos and mystery." ~ Otto Weininger_

Shiloh Smoak loved people. Crowds? Not so much. She hated the feeling of masses of people pressing in on her, bumping her out of place in their rush to get wherever it was they were going. Not to mention the loud, ever-present thrum of hundreds of collective voices. There were too many voices ringing in her ears to single out any particular one. She had heard that London tube stations were always busy, but that was to be expected in one of Europe's most prominent cities.

Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the nearest bench and looked around her. She just arrived in London and was already stupefied by how different it was from her last home. To her left was a group of young men, which she assumed were tourists, because it was unlikely any native of London would design their entire outfit from the British flag. On another bench a few feet from hers sat a stout, middle-aged man in a cheap suit. He checked his watch every few seconds and shifted his position in annoyance; it didn't take much brainpower for her to see he was late to work in some boring profession. Probably banking. A sweet old lady to her right held a stuffed lion; maybe for a grandson? Not her best work, but she knew after the sluggishness that accompanied a long trip wore off her cognitive abilities would return to normal.

Shiloh smiled softly and pulled out a guide book, wrinkling her nose at the cover. She had traveled many places and never needed to buy an over-priced tourist book, but today she decided to give in to clichés. She read through the information on famous landmarks, searching for a map and trying to drown out the bothersome noise from the crowd that drove her crazy. Before she had gotten the information she needed, a shadow darkened the pages and she glanced up.

A man with dark curly hair and a striking visage stood before her, seeming incredibly tall from her seated position. He had a very defined face; his ridiculously sharp cheekbones and raised chin giving him an air of superiority. A long dark coat added to the sense of mystery radiating from this random stranger. It wasn't until he started speaking rapidly that she realized she had been staring too long, her eyes widening as she tried to keep up with the rest of what he was saying.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and whether or not you've heard of me I happened to notice that you're in need of a place to live. Unfortunately, my stubborn roommate recently insisted on getting married and so I have an available room in fla-"

"Straight to the point, aren't you?" she asked, cutting him off.

"Well, yes. The flat is accommodating enough, cheap with rent being split between the two of us. Both of our problems easily solved." he continued bluntly, as if asking a stranger to move in were the simplest thing in the world.

"What makes you think I need a place to stay?" she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him curiously.

He rolled his eyes in irritation. "Three bags around you, one of which is a suitcase. A bit much to haul to a job, wouldn't you agree?"

"I could be heading to a new flat right now..." she attempted, but her voice seemed hollow to her own ears. .

"You could, but you aren't, which I can tell by the simple fact that you haven't left the tube station and are reading a guidebook. Originally, I thought it might have been a novel but now that I can read the title it's also plainly obvious that your nail-biting is a nervous habit and not from being engrossed in your book. A simpleton could figure that much out. Don't make me into a fool, I am most certainly not that." he rushed out. Shiloh wondered how he could sustain such a deep voice for so long without taking a breath.

"Alright, fine. Do you normally go about asking complete strangers to come live with you?" she questioned, tilting her head a bit.

"Only the somewhat tolerable ones. That excludes most of the population already."

"Thank you for the compliment, I am often told I'm somewhat tolerable." she smiled despite her attempt to remain serious.

"If you're quite done being amused, I'd prefer to have an answer to my offer before my mortal body withers away. I'm not the sort of man to waste time engaging in idle chat." he retorted.

At this Shiloh stood up, slinging one strap of her backpack over her shoulder and searching his face carefully for any indication that this perplexing man presented a threat to her.

"Then what sort of man _are_ you, Mr. Holmes?" she inquired, a smirk playing across her lips. Bright, calculating, blue-green eyes examined her. They seemed to look straight through her and see every secret she ever kept, every aspect of her being. She resisted the urge to look away or squirm.

"The sort that knows you bite your nails when you're nervous and hate crowds because of the book you read; that you need a place to stay because you've lived in several different countries over the past years, most recently Ecuador, judging by the fabric of your shirt. The very ends of your hair are dark brown, but you've let it grow out so by now it's almost entirely your natural shade. Why? You love your hair colour. Something significant happened in your life some years ago to make you want to change it to something less noticable. Whatever it was dealt heavy blows to your mental state, and resulted in your inability to settle in one place for more than a year. You don't have much money or need for it, but you do carry valuable possessions on your person, including your heirloom necklace which implies that at some point you were surrounded by wealth. Is that enough to prove my point, or need I go on?" the words spilled out of him, and Shiloh's mouth parted in amazement. The other things weren't that much of a stretch, but how had he noticed the hair? Whatever he just did, she wanted to see him do it again.

Shaking herself out of her daze, she struggled to find a word for what she had just heard. "Phenomenal." she settled on eventually, grinning ear to ear. "I would love to find a better word, although I don't think the English language has one that could quite describe your display Sherlock."

"I was hoping that would be your opinion. I take it you accept?" he asked, secretly pleased at the compliment. He turned around and walking away before she had the chance to answer. She supposed he already knew what she would say.

"Shiloh! My name is Shiloh." she called, picking up her bags and running behind him. Glancing down at her guidebook, she tossed it over her shoulder and into the trash bin. "I won't be needing you now."

Sherlock hailed a cab and Shiloh hurriedly put her bags in the back. "Where are we going exactly?"

"221B Baker street." he replied simply. "You'll take John's room."

"John? The married flatmate?" she questioned absently, looking out the window at the grey sky and the people. Excitement stretched in her stomach like a waking dragon. Excitement at being in a new city, a new country, and at being with such a bizarre and eccentric man. Excitement at new mysteries to unfold.

"Yes. He'll likely be around quite often, he does love the thrill of the chase. But he won't stay much overnight." he replied.

"Chase? What kind of chase?" she started to ask, but was interrupted when the cab stopped in front of Speedy's sandwich bar and cafe. Sherlock hopped out and she followed him slowly through the dark door labeled 221B and up the staircase, noticing that he stepped in certain places on the stairs. She made a note to remember them, in case the other spots were creaky.

She wasn't entirely sure what to expect of the home, but she wasn't entirely surprised to be greeted with chaos. The flat was cluttered, newspapers strewn across the coffee table and floor which probably weren't read by Sherlock. A lurid yellow smiley face decorated one wall, which starkly contrasted the more sophisticated wallpaper. Bullet holes littered the face in uneven spaces, and her eyes widened as she made a mental note to ask about it later. A peek in the kitchen revealed a table covered with a microscope and a fascinating array of scientific equipment, including beakers, Bunsen burners,. flasks, scales, measuring tapes, a few oddly placed boiled eggs, and more newspapers. Her eyes traveled to the two comfortable-looking armchairs by the fireplace.

If she looked closer at the chaos and disorder, Shiloh could clearly see a method to the madness. The books were kept in neat piles, the décor was placed precisely. Her eyes took in the bookcases and a smile lit up her face. She'd have to browse his collection later. Then her gaze found the mantle...

"Is that...a skull?" she asked, her eyes glued the empty eyes staring back at her.

"Just an old friend of mine." Sherlock said deeply, sitting in what she assumed was _his_ armchair. She could feel him watching her, probably to gauge some sort of reaction though she had no clue what he was expecting. She crossed the room to get a closer look, picking up the remaining piece of a long-dead human in her hand.

"Goodness Sherlock, if this is a friend than you're much older than I thought." grinning, she set it back down, wondering if the rest of this old friend was hidden somewhere else in her new home.

"You can attempt to be as funny as you like, I'm an expert at drowning it out." he replied with an exaggerated sigh, though the corners of his lips turned up slightly. Sherlock watched her as she inspected the flat, trying to deduce what her reaction would be if he asked her to solve a murder with him. In honesty, he hadn't expected the offer to share a flat to go over quite so smoothly. Sherlock Holmes had never believed in luck, but this traveling redhead surprised him. It seemed like she would make an excellent partner in John's absence. She had passed the skull test, and the smiley test, and now he wondered how she'd fare when she discovered a severed arm in the refrigerator. He could tell by the way she spoke to him that she was used to being kept on her toes, never still, never bored. She was used to trouble.

The door slammed shut downstairs, interrupting the silence as heavy footsteps ascended. _John's returned just in time,_ Sherlock thought. A best friend with an adrenaline addiction and a new flatmate who seeks a great adventure.

Sherlock Holmes would not disappoint.


End file.
